


requiem (for a collapsing star)

by spacemagic



Series: a selection of sunless dreams [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Everyone deserves better, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-17 22:54:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5888410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemagic/pseuds/spacemagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vader has lost. Anakin is gone. The man who was both and neither comes to terms with his actions in a series of hallucinations, half-dreams, as his life fades away, as the death star collapses behind him.</p><p>Written through the lens of Anakin's relationships with the four women who he tried - and failed - to protect. Shmi; Padmé; Ashoka; Leia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue: breathlessness

 

(she dreams of the sound of ragged breathing. she dreams of nothing, lots of nothing.)

 

* * *

 

 

 

His body trembled as his lungs expanded.

His fingers – he counted eight fingers, two thumbs – two full hands, all flesh and blood and bone – grasped at the earth beneath him – before clawing – checking – two arms, two legs, body all skin and heartbeats and sudden breaths, shuddering – no metal, no machinery – no canisters of distilled air stored in hidden compartments beneath his chest –

He touched his face. Soft skin, no scars. Lips that drew breath. He could feel it tickle his throat. Crisp air, fresh, alive.

It was flavoured like forest, wood and earth, traces of lingering smoke – something must be burning far, far away, he thought, lazily. Perhaps a Star Destroyer. A chuckle. It was his own – the chuckle, his own laughter, he could feel it creep out of his lips. He barely recognised it, it sounded far too easy, almost effortless (did Anakin Skywalker always laugh so easily?). He could not recall the last time he could more than smile – physically – without spasms of pain. Without his throat bleeding dry, without mechanical assistance to hand, without monitors regulating his neural activity. He pushed away all thoughts of smiles and laughter. Unpleasant.

This world burned, but there were no fleets crashing to earth here. His last memories were of the whittle-and-click of his life support, and the cold interior of the half-constructed Death Star – version II, he would correct, to the irritation of the chief of engineering.

_I am dying._

A fragile recollection of the face of his son, kneeling beside him. Whispers of forgiveness, warmth in the cold emptiness of space.

That part was all a delusion, of course. No one should forgive him for what he had done.

Given the course of events, all things considered, he was however fairly certain he was dead. The Sith believed that at death, there was nothing. Absence. Void. It was all the peace and comfort Vader had ever needed – to know that this cold universe would decay, amount to nothing, at some point, time permitting.

It struck him that this was now probably an incorrect assessment. The air he now breathed – by the stars, he could now _breathe_ , so freely, so effortlessly, all the colours and the flavours and the smells, without distillation or support, it was dizzying, so _dizzying_ – it was all a little too vivid for his liking. He lay there, feeling his chest rise and fall, listening to the rhythm of his body, tasting the ash in the air, as he considered a solution. He’d always imagined death to be rather… bland. Not like this. Perhaps this was a brief interlude before the end. He supposed he ought to wake up at some point in case he had to deal with an afterlife of torment after all. It would be fitting.  

He opened his eyes.

 

*

 

_vader -  
_

Twilight was not supposed to be this harsh. The flicker of distant star clusters on a burnt sky – they now seemed so bright, so sudden, without the tinted lens of a mask. Were the stars always this blinding? Did they always hurt? It blistered like a light he hadn’t seen since he was a boy.

_who are you?_

Who exactly was he, again? (Irreverent question. That voice was a hallucination.) He needed to concentrate in order to complete this process. Steady his pulse. Control. Basic physics. Thermonuclear fusion of elements at the plasma core of a star occurs in order of weight. The last element before supernova was iron.

_are you a warrior? a general? or are you a butcher who has forgotten to clean his hands? a humble servant or a proud slave -  
_

He shuddered. That last word shook him. His head was spinning like a rocket. Why did it feel like he was weightless, without matter, all thoughts scrambled, screaming, at the centre of a collapsing star?

(Irrelevant question. He was most certainly hallucinating. All had been reduced to nothing.)

_skywalker -  
_

Skywalker was dead.

_master of the jedi order, the hero with no fear -  
_

Anakin Skywalker was _dead_.

_do you deny it? where you come from? what you have_ done _?  
_

‘No.’

A branch snapped.

He would shut out this harsh and irritable light.

_anakin -  
_

‘But I am not _him_ ,’ he said, in this voice that was a stranger to him.

He closed his fist.

Breathe in.

‘I will take my own path.’

Breathe out.

The sky began to darken around him. He was a fool to think redemption would be so simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited this a bunch. Y'know. Five chapters in. I'm so tempted just to scrap the second half.


	2. i: storms (Shmi)

(This time, she dreams of thousands of petals adrift in the desert. They are colour of setting suns that she has never seen. She dreams of the dune sea that she had never sailed. There are sandstorms so fierce they can flay her skin off her body.)

 

* * *

 

 

 

He goes first to the desert, where there was the storm, and only the storm. Or so the whispers said: in truth, truth itself was malleable commodity whose fluctuating value was whispered in the winds of this day and age. As the winds told it, then: the storm had long shaken the earth, it broke it, until it twisted into dust. Where wind could blow, so too, the sandstorms would rage, and desert would follow. They would tear at the world, snarling across the dunes, and the desert would remember its every footstep. Every river of water and blood that once trailed across its land, empty, every child born to the land, skinned alive, by the cruel glint of the twin suns that blazed above them, the desert would remember.

Those chained to the desert would watch and wait until the twins’ sideways glance painted the world red, where they’d cross those lost waters in search of freedom. They would stand watch in the dark and sharpen their weapons – an ion-drive engine stacked with a hyperdrive prototype in a dual-propulsion system, respectfully – as dusk fell. In time, they knew one of their own would dare to reach above their heights, breaking past the skies to touch the stars. And they would be free in the depth of darkness, without gods, without masters.

The twin suns who presided over the storm, they who shone with fury and light, eventually caught wind of these stray whispers (for a very reasonable price, of course, much to their dissatisfaction). Mutters of revolution were afoot, and they were hopelessly distant from the earth from which they shone over. How irritable, that their artificially engineered macro-climate hadn’t managed to quell threats of rebellion and twist the desert-dwelling population into compliance as initially planned. How vexating, they thought, that the weak think themselves as worthy as the strong. So in turn, they hatched a plan.

A child was chosen for their purposes. He was plucked from his family – from the blood of the sandstorms, a son from below the empty skies – with the meagre promise of a brighter future as an exchange for his presence (all lies, of course). The chosen one was brought into their orbit, distant from the only world he’d ever known, and from that moment onward induced into an order of heroic knights, bringers of justice, creatures of the light and vanquishers of the dark. The twins foretold of power to twist stardust to starlight, to make solid matter weightless and light, to tear apart the sky and the stars. He would join their vanguard, as the greatest of their number – if only he followed three simple instructions, to the exact letter.

First. He would not question orders. Good soldiers always follow orders.  
Second. He would always follow the light. He would be its most devoted servant.  
Third. He would not look back.

He had knelt before the twins, and swears fealty to their cause without reservation. The suns beam with mischief at their new creation.

Skywalker, they had called him.

He was to stand at the epicentre, the apex. He would be the guardian of the storm, the strategist, the general at war. He would command this vortex of rage, and he would be unshakeable. He would guide the strong to the light, to the iron grip of peace and prosperity, and he would walk above the mangled bodies of the weak, the undeserving, he would trample the slave tongues of his ancestors, crying for a future that false prophets had only shrouded for them. Pathetic. He was their only future, their legacy. The living, breathing artefact of a dead culture.

This is me, he had thought. This is my core. This is my power. All that is me – All that I will be. He had thought that he would never look back.

_query: who are you?_

He trails across the desert, across the corpse of hopes and dreams. He feels worlds break at his touch, he could shatter empires, watch imperial starships scatter and crash through the sky, their interiors empty and cold. He does not look back.

He burns through the ruins of his own making.

 

* * *

 

 

There are no suns now. Only storms.

The desert remembers.

His boot catches the edge of a small, coiled hand that clings on to him, refuses to let go –

_(don’t look back –)_

A sideways glance, then.

_(don’t –)_

His breath stops. Bruised. Butchered. Strangled. Worse. Her tongue torn out by vultures. Left to the wastes, his mother’s body, her poor, bruised fingers, they cling to his stride. His mother. She has no words for him, she cannot tell him much.

_who are you?_

He falls to his knees, and clutches her small hand. He is _her son_ , her blood, her kin – one of the walkers of the sky, the dreamers of the desert – a child of the storm and the stars. He knows of how heat blisters and burns during the rage of midday. He knows the few places where the water touches, where it runs deep into shade. He knows the traces of light in her smile that she can no longer bring him as he carries it home, he knows the heavy scent of spice that peppers her cooking that he hasn’t had in so long, that drifts through their little home. He knows how she whispered stories in handfuls of her mother tongue, which she refused to let her owner take. She had once told him of cruel masters and clever slaves, rebellions that could save them, all justice and rage, stories that urged to tear down the system that held the suns in the sky and the rest bound to the earth.

He recalls how his mother smiles as he tells him stories about drawing blood.

‘Why did you come back? You always hated this place.’

‘I lost myself. I wanted to see if there was something left.’

She frowns.

‘There is nothing for you here, son.’

He now looks at her empty body. He looks behind him, and he sees the trail of bodies that took him to this point. It is too long, far too long.

He might as well still be wearing chains for what little difference it makes.

It strikes Skywalker that despite four decades of sailing across the galaxy, he had never really left Tatooine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently struggling with chapter 5 (I'm trying to resist a complete re-write), so I'll space out the next two instalments a little more. It should be said that this should be interpreted as a collection of dream-like scenes with relatively little plot behind them. I'm trying to experiment with the style of writing behind each. If there is anything that defines my fanfiction writing, it's redemption/recovery stories told through the medium of trippy dream sequences.
> 
> This chapter owes a lot to [Fialleril's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Fialleril/pseuds/Fialleril) fiction, and their excellent Tatooine headcanons. I really recommend their work.


	3. ii: white noise (Padmé)

(she dreams of things snapped into fragments. promises, broken. white walls. porcelain. unwashed hands. suffocation. the white noise is so loud, that no words could be defined or outlined. she can smell traces of a flower. a broken doll.)

* * *

 

 

 

Distance.

Light.

Softness.

White.

This place, he knew.

Her walls were off-white, with a touch of honeysuckle on the trellis. Lord Vader had quarantined her former quarters immediately; in time, their existence vanished from common knowledge. Everything kept as she left it. A sanctuary.

Her name escaped his lips with reverence. The only word ever spoken here.

Only traces of her remained there, still in the force. He could not feel her beyond it. A quiet universe, it was, without Padmé Amidala. If he let his fingers trace outlines, if he let himself – dare himself – to touch the edges of those walls, sometimes he could feel himself buried in those dark, heavy curls, breathless. Tumbling from her shoulders, caught in the scent of her softness, lost.

It was a weak memory. Barely there. He tried to recollect the smoothness of her voice –

He couldn’t.

Had he – no – he couldn’t –

The thought was utterly _impossible_.

A mirror, on the far side of the room, shattered.

He could never forget her.

Gingerly, he walked to the other side of the room. He decided then and there to touch the places he had barred himself from. He pushed open the bedroom door.

The balcony window was left slightly ajar, with a half-empty glass of blossom wine, Theed Red on the edge (a single glass). The sheets were crumpled. A handwritten note was left on the dresser.

‘You are mine; I am yours.’

A scrap from their wedding vows. Something he thought lost.

_I can’t breathe._

Once, he could dare to trace lips along collarbones and fingertips along the edges of her spine.

_I can’t –_

Sometimes he would draw blood.

 _‘Don’t stop.’_ ’

She would bite back. She'd savage him. Her kisses were always hard and fierce and too much like his own and she tried to soften them (something neither of them acknowledged). He could remember that much – her hands all over him, he was hers: her thing, possessive case. She always knew where to hide the bruises.

There were no visions of these things lingering within these silent rooms.

He took hold of the note. He almost tore it to pieces. They were both dead now and this room was little more than a decaying corpse.

On the reverse side of the note, hidden in the corner, he noticed a code – the sort one would use for a personal safe. He knew she had her passcodes and locks changed every two weeks so it was unlikely… curious, he pulled open the drawers of her dressing table until he found it. He inputted the code. It opened.

Inside was a single, slim file.

**SENATORIAL SOCIAL-DEMOCRATIC CAUCUS MINUTES – 19/08/XXXX**

IN ATTENDANCE: Organa, B [Alderaan]. Momtha, M [Chandrilla]. Amidala, P [Naboo].

AGENDA:

The rest of the names had been redacted. His eye slid down the page to the fifth agenda point. It had been circled and underlined.

 

> **5A:** Manifesto for the Alliance for the Restoration of the Galactic Republic [The Rebellion]. Discuss + refine primary objectives outlined, inc. debate over necessity of violence. P.A. has outlined a number of suggestions and improvements.

In less than fifty words, he had enough evidence to convict half of the Imperial Senate of high treason and sentence them to execution almost twenty years before the Battle of Yavin even occurred. It had been sitting in his wife’s dresser, gathering dust.

He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. He found he could not.

Padmé was always loud. Outspoken. It had an irritating tendency to get her almost killed, but _stars_ – she was like fire in her speeches, her words as bright as a collapsing star. It was difficult to look at directly. It was much easier to see pale reflection of the moon, scattered in silk.

Had he really forgotten that?

Had he really forgotten who she was?

He felt the papers slide out of his hands.

 

_I can’t breathe._

 

In the quiet, he couldn’t remember her words. He could only feel how he’d once had her in his grasp.

 _Anakin – please –_ her voice catching, trembling – _I love you –_

He had watched his fingers around her slender neck, curious as to how little force he’d require to snap it in half.

_I love you –_

Her porcelain skin, it was so easy to break. Her voice silenced. The object of this shrine.

 _I don’t know who you are anymore_.

‘I don’t know who you are anymore’; it could have been smeared over the walls and ceiling.

She couldn't breathe.

 

He didn’t know why he hadn’t torn this all down. It was all too quiet. There was nothing left for him here but dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason this fiction has an M rating is largely because of this chapter. This chapter has been edited to death; I hope it's to your liking. 
> 
> I think this dynamic has been explored a lot but I thought I'd try my own spin on it - for instance, I always thought there was something quite impulsive and reckless in Padmé's character for her to shrug her shoulders and marry Anakin after only knowing him properly for a few months. She has more in common with Anakin, I believe, than most people realise. I also wanted to capture how toxic this relationship became (entirely Anakin's fault), and I wanted to capture his realisation of that without it being over-dramatic.


	4. iii: bruised, exhausted (Ahsoka)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance if you haven't watched The Clone Wars. 
> 
> The most you need to know is that:  
> 1\. Ahsoka was formerly Anakin's apprentice.  
> 2\. She left the Jedi Order one year prior to the collapse of the Republic (the short story is that the Jedi Council screwed up again).  
> 3\. She eventually joins the Rebel Alliance as an agent several years later.  
> Her fate is as of yet unconfirmed but I'm making guesses.

(she dreams of wars which never end, skies that bleed to red, she dreams of bruised buildings and decay, there is no noise left to hear, but the war drums still thrum like her heartbeat, she can't stop fighting, she can't stop fighting...)

* * *

 

 

 

 

He could still hear echoes of sandstorms tearing through his head as his footsteps pattered through marble hallways.

The atrium lay in pieces at his feet. Its pillars had crumbled, its painted hollows, its bold arches, pried open. Dust had gathered on the delicate frescoes, once detailing the many paths of light in green and gold. It was once full of footsteps and cautious chatter – now it lay silent and empty. A mess. Not of Sidious’ making – no, he had practically _salivated_ at the thought of the Jedi Temple within his clutches, he had coveted every corner of this decrepit building, guarding it with jealousy. How disgusting. To Vader, this place was little different than Tatooine: a fragment of the past. Faded into irrelevance. Don’t look back, she said.

He walked instead in the direction of the temple gardens. To Anakin, this place was a moment of tranquillity, filled with gentle streams and lush flowers. When he’d first got here – back when he was not much more than an outer rim desert rat, a runaway – he had found himself wandering this direction without his notice. On his first visit, he spent half an hour observing a flower the exact same shade as his eyes, fixated with how soft a row of little blue petals could be. His master was somewhere on a scale between bemused and mildly irritated by the incident, given how much difficulty he had teaching his young padawan to focus. ‘Hyacinths,’ he had corrected, with a smirk.  

It struck him suddenly that his old master also used to keep those flowers – the soft, blue ones – in the kitchen window of their shared quarters, where they’d catch the light.

The gardens all ran wild and tangled now. From beyond the twisted branches and ropes of vine, leaves in gold and green, there was no glittering, high-rise skyline: he could only see derelict towers leaning against a yellowing sky. There was no noise. No oncoming traffic. No blinking signals of ships in the sky.

Coruscant had burnt. It had been utterly destroyed.

He felt his fingers gather into a tight fist.

What was the point of this? What was this vision serving? That all things, eventually, would end – that he knew, why illustrate the point so _gratuitously –_

(it disturbs even you)

Yes. Yes, it does. He was not beyond feeling –

(a whisper: was he?)

He would not lower himself by answering such a petulant question.

He peered at the horizon. It had been savaged. An ugly carcass of iron and concrete was all that remained, jutting out into the sky. It was almost as if a storm or a whirlwind had ripped it apart, but that couldn’t be possible given the planet’s highly developed defence network –

(this is you, is it not? this is your core; this is your power)

He slammed the voice out of his head.

Vader was a man who kept to time. He believed in efficiency. Things were useful, or they weren’t. Vader understood the world in terms of mission objectives and military stratagems. This – this as far as he can tell, was not part of an effective military solution to anything.

This was the act of someone who had truly lost it.

(you.)

He paused. His fist was still clenched.

‘Perhaps,’ he said aloud.

No response.

In the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of blue. A little row of bright flowers that crawled out from beneath the rubble.

( _he left you there he left you he left you there to burn he left you screaming and he was your brother and he left you there in the hot angry burning and he’s not here either because he left you he wouldn’t come here for you and he would leave you again and again and again like they always leave you –)_

The wall behind him shattered with the force.

As did whatever remained of the temple.

_Shit._

He’d done it again. He was sick of this – so sick, of what he was. He’d said to himself – _I’m no longer him, I’m no longer either of them_ – that he could let go of this, that he could move on, however he could, that he could retain some semblance of sanity – god, what a _joke_ , he couldn’t remember a single moment in his life that wasn’t completely mad, he was a total case and was perpetually amazed no one else had ever seen it, what was he thinking promising something so completely ludicrous. He couldn’t do this. He absolutely could not do this.

( _he left you_ )

He drew his hands over his face, and shook his head. He needed help.  

( _he left you. he’s not here. he’ll do it again._ )

His fingers tightened.

_(no more colour, not any more. not after he left.)_

He glanced up at the last traces of blue in the sky.

 

*

 

Coruscant, bruised. This was a world made weary by war. Exhausted of missiles. Tired. She had sharpened herself until she was little more than a weapon for its sake (so had he), to a point where anything else was unimaginable.

(What happens to used soldiers? When the battle collapses, and everything's red and ruin. Do they break with it? Do they bleed past it?)

She had kept breathing and not stopped fighting, not for one moment. Jedi did not believe in attachments, and though she was no Jedi, all she brought with her was bitterness (and soft memories which couldn't come to pass, which fell from her fingers). She chose to be bitter and fight.

Anakin, did he know what long, cold shadows he had cast? Did he know how suffocating it was to be within inches of him? He probably thought it a kindness to withdraw from the reach of others - to become absent, a nothing. A kindness to know that their destruction was an empty suit. Not him.

Or maybe he didn't care.

She would fight him either way.

 

*

 

‘He’s not here.’

He looked up. She hung from the twisted wreckage of a communication tower, her legs dangling over its railings. An excellent angle for a shot to the back of the head, if a little reckless – it was close, too close. Then again, recklessness was a quality Ahsoka Tano never seemed to lack, as she leapt in one fluid motion from her position to crumbled garden where her former master knelt.

She still wore all the scars she took to battle on the day she died.

‘Obi-Wan Kenobi,’ she said. ‘Is not here.’

He stood up, and motioned to leave.

‘ _Wow_.’ Her features twisted into a small laugh – but no sound came out. It was too bitter for that. ‘I’ve been dead for seven years, and _that’s_ all you’ve got to say for yourself, huh?’

Anakin – or Vader – stopped. ‘Snips,’ he said, pointedly. ‘We didn’t exactly part on friendly terms.’

‘You’ve got some _fucking nerve_ , _Skyguy_ – '

He put up a hand. ‘I doubt you’d care to hear me wallow in self-pity. So I won't. I very well know nothing I can say can make up for what I’ve done. Tell me where he is, and I’ll be on my way.’

Ahsoka considered this for a moment. Then her expression hardened.

‘You’re right. It can’t.’

This Ahsoka Tano – this older, almost regal Ahsoka, she didn’t fidget with her hands or bounce on her feet or swivel her eyes at the slightest trace of sarcasm. She met his gaze directly. This Ahsoka he’d only ever met in battle.

‘Please tell me where Kenobi is.’ The _please_ came out with a strain. The ‘Kenobi’ came out as if it were a dirty word. ‘It’s not difficult.’

Ahsoka almost laughed. ‘That’s a load of bantha shit and you know it. It’s _never_ simple with you,’ she snapped. ‘And why do you even care? Why _would_ you care? Anakin – you killed Obi-Wan. You stabbed him. With your lightsaber. Getting your insides torn apart by one of those things – that shit hurts.’

‘I’m quite aware of that, actually. Obi-Wan sliced off most of my limbs and left me to burn to death on Mustafar a year after you left.’

Ahsoka has nothing to say to that.

There isn’t much anyone can say to that.

‘Ahsoka.’ His voice was too quiet. ‘I need to fix things. I need to get better. I need – I can’t do it alone.’

Too honest. Too blunt.

He shuts his eyes. He refuses to break in front of her.

A small hand touches his shoulder. Hers. Unexpected (for both of them).

‘Look, he can’t help you,’ she said, withdrawing her touch in an instant. ‘He locked himself away the moment you left.’

A pause. He didn’t say anything more.

She sighed, quietly. ‘From what I hear, he still felt responsible for your welfare, and took your departure to be his own personal failure.’ She sounded uneasy. As if she were recounting a third or fourth-hand story about someone she barely knew.

‘…Look, the collapse of the Republic wasn’t exactly easy for any of us, but I think it hit him pretty hard. I think he can’t stop wondering where he went wrong. If he went wrong. How he went wrong. How things could have been different. The ‘what if’ game, you know.’

A weak smile.

‘Dangerous,’ he said. He knew. He’d played it himself. It never ended well.

Ahsoka nodded. She understood too. ‘Who you were and who you are… they simply can’t be the same person, to him. According to Jedi doctrine, they aren't, of course.’

She sounded almost sceptical.

‘You haven’t forgiven me,’ he said, steadily.

‘No. I’m not sure I can. I’m just not that kind of person.’

‘Seems I taught you too well.’

She shrugs.

‘When I figured out you were… y’know,’

‘Vader.’

‘Vader. Yeah. After the shock had worn off, I dreamt about sticking your head on a pike for several months.’

He chuckled. ‘Personally, I’d call that a perfectly rational response.’

‘I’m petty and vindictive, Anakin. I still hate you. I hate what you’ve done, I hate what you represent, and I especially hate what you’ve done to me. But what pisses me off the most is that I _knew_ that under that mask, it was you. Screw this Sith Mythology crap. You can’t throw your life away so easily. You’re him. You’re Vader _and_ you’re Anakin Skywalker. It’s the same damn thing. It was _you_ who did all this.’

She inclined her head towards the horizon. The broken city. The derelict world.

‘It _was_ me, then.’

‘You don’t seem surprised.’

‘No. Simply disappointed.’ And rather confused. ‘Why would I do this?’

Ahsoka rolled her eyes, as if the answer was self-evident.

‘Beats me. Alternate Universe, maybe? This is all happening in your head anyway, Skyguy, like hell I know what’s going on in there.’

He frowned. ‘So this is all just a hallucination, then.’

‘Yeah. And also no, _really_ no. Death is really weird. Don’t ask.’

‘Great.’ He sighed. Probably the closest to a concrete answer he’d get. ‘So we _are_ having this conversation.’

‘Yeah. We are. I wish we weren’t.’

The coldness of that comment seemed to suddenly hit her.

‘Sorry,’ she said.

‘For what?’

‘I just,’ she began. Then stopped. ‘You know. Want to kill you.’

A flustered laugh.

‘ _Fuck,_ ’ she said.

She was shaking.

'Oh, Ahsoka. Here -' he pulled her into his arms – and she grabbed onto him in return, clinging far too tightly. Her breath was ragged. She was still shaking. They were both complete wrecks, the both of them.

‘Some Jedi I turned out to be,’ she said eventually, smiling weakly.

‘No. They didn’t deserve you.’

She shook her head.

‘Ahsoka, _please_. They treated you like dirt. They threw you into a warzone when you were just a child. They then threw you out of the order without hesitation to defend their reputation to a corrupt government. They completely messed up, on all accounts. Despite that, you outlived them and you outdid them.’

‘No thanks to you.’

‘Exactly my point.’

He moved back, his hands on her shoulders, and looked directly at her. They stood at equal height, now – funny that, Ahsoka hadn’t noticed it before. He wanted to do her right. He wanted to do her good. And so he said the worst possible thing:

‘Ahsoka, I couldn’t be more proud of you.’

She pushed back.

_(I would never let anyone hurt you.)_

She wanted to smile. She wanted to beam with pride.

‘Just – can it, won’t you, Skyguy?’

She tries to laugh. She really does.

She ends up crying.

‘You were _so_ great, you know...’ she felt the words slip out without meaning. ‘A great person, no – a _good_ person, you cared so much about _everything_ and _everyone_ … the rest didn’t matter, recklessness and stupidity can go hang, I certainly didn’t want to give a damn, I would have followed you in a full-frontal assault into the centre of the sun and back because I knew you always _did_ come back, in the end…’

She trailed off. 

'Ahsoka...'

'I would have followed you.'

'You left.'

'I would have _followed_ you, Anakin.'

She wasn’t wrong. She would have followed him into the fiery blazes of an exploding star. She would have stood alongside him as the Clone Wars refused to end, as the conflict strangled even the furthest corner of the galaxy, as it throttled even the capital – Coruscant. This was the world where she’d never left his side, where all was reduced to nothing.

In the real world, he had refused to give her that choice - to follow, to not. Instead, he had cut her down. He had told her he would never let _anyone_ hurt her, and he had cut her down. She could not follow him if he had killed her first.

‘You were the best, Anakin. And then you still went did all those awful things _anyway_.’

‘I’m sorry, Ahsoka. I’m so, so sorry.’

‘I know. But it’s not enough. And you know that.’

She felt her fingers reach for her lightsaber. He didn’t stop her.

What would bring her happiness? What would bring her peace?

She didn’t know. She’d been fighting too long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice by now a recurring theme. this work is divided into six: an introduction, a conclusion, and then four dream sequences in between where Anakin/Vader approaches an important woman who has defined his life. I originally considered this to be the Obi-Wan chapter, but I decided against it: partially for thematic reasons (I like the idea of this being a fic about his relationships with women, ordered in terms of who died/'betrayed' Anakin first), but also because Obi-Wan has much less to say given that he's already forgiven him. Ahsoka is a good foil to Obi-Wan here: where Obi-Wan felt responsible for Anakin, and was quick to forgive for that reason, Anakin was responsible for her - and failed so utterly at that role.
> 
> Ahsoka is possibly out of character here but I'm justifying it through the amount of time that has passed between The Clone Wars, and RoTJ - she's gained plenty of time to become bitter about what's happened. (Yes, I've watched Rebels, but I think their characterisation of her could be more interesting). Given the events of the Original Trilogy, where there are effectively no jedi left, Ahsoka needs to do one of two things before A New Hope: 1. die, or 2. turn to the dark side. I went for the first option, having her killed by the only person really capable of doing it (Vader). This chapter is also what the Major Character Death warning is for. 
> 
> The other thing I think I need to explain is that I chose conventional swearing over in-universe swearing because whilst I personally believe that Ahsoka more than likely spent several years on the rim bounty hunting, swearing in Huttese seems out of character for her (in contrast to Anakin, who it perfectly suits). Also, 'karking' is a ridiculous word and doesn't carry any of the power of 'fuck'.
> 
> I think that's everything. Extremely long A/N over.


	5. iv: magic (Leia)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry.

(she dreams of holding the galaxy in her palm, how heavy all those stars would be, how hot, how restless - and how much simpler it would be to crush it all to dust.)

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, she watches the desert fade and the red sands blow along the dune sea as the sky erupts with stars. She’s sixteen, leant back on a beat-up dirt bike she spiced up at her old man’s garage, all messy braids and goggles and tatty copies of Coruscanti romance novels. Breaking curfew. Counting each system that she’ll visit, with her little finger. She has a loaded blaster rifle.

The desert chills quick – the cicadas snare as she speeds past, back home. She can’t stray for long.

 

*

 

‘Hey, bozo. Your turn to make breakfast.’

The sun cuts through air beneath the sheets.

Damn. He could have done with that extra five minutes. He mumbles something unmistakeably rude in a Huttese into his pillow which shouldn’t be repeated to impressionable ears.

It’s heard anyway. A loose shrug. A laugh, like it’s easy.

‘Fine.’

She shoves a pillow in his face.

‘Oh _hell_ no.’ He writhes under the sheets before she rips them off. ‘Sweetie – _please_ –‘ And yet here he is again, at the mercy of a small pair of hands. ‘I _surrender_.’

She smiles at that – and jumps off the bed.

‘C’mon. Up. Before I die of starvation and you’re arrested for wilful neglect of a child.’

The door slams behind her before he can say anything.

It’s dark again.

He knows that’s his cue to stop messing around and drag himself out of bed. Slaps water on his face. Pulls his hair up into a mess of a bun. When was the last time he cut this? It’s all thinning to nothing. He’d braid it out of the way later, when his mouth didn’t taste like dirt.

He tries to remember what he was dreaming about again.

He can’t.

‘You know, it probably doesn’t matter.’

It’s hardly his most convincing attempt at lying to himself. He decides to shelve the issue and ignore it completely. A familiar tactic.

He pulls himself into his mess of a kitchen. Small and clean but crumbling to bits, pretty much like everything else in this hole. Though she didn’t seem to mind that much. Her nose was already stuck in a book – all elbows on the counter. Still enough room for two.

She looks up at him, amused. ‘ _Finally_. The dragon awakens.’

‘Yeah. Real scary, me.’

She smiles. It’s something she can’t imagine.

 

*

 

She’s young. Staying awake all throughout the night seems impossible. Stories and the truth roughly equate to the same thing and her father is still made of starlight and fairy dust, and nothing can convince her otherwise.

The altercation occurs at 1.14am. Aggressive negotiations. The garage door clangs shut once it’s settled and that’s what shakes her awake from dreams of knights and adventure across the stars. She clutches her doll tightly enough to strangle it.

‘You’ll hurt Rosie. When you hold her tightly like that.’

His fingers brush through her hair softly.

‘Don’t break the things you love, Leia.’

Her father had forgotten to wash the blood of his hands.

 

*

 

The blinds are closed. The light outside is too bright.

‘So how _would_ you like your breakfast this morning, your highness?’

She doesn’t look up from her book: ‘Scrambled. Milk but no sugar – I’m sweet enough.’

Heh. She’d lifted that line from him, word for word. A small eyebrow arches at his snort of laughter.

‘Wise guy.’ She almost sounds offended.

‘Of course. Anything you say, princess.’

And he means it.

She’s grinning at her father. She smiles like he does – all smirk and snark.

He ruffles her hair.

A roll of her eyes.

‘I’m not twelve.’

He shrugs. The difference means little. He begins to fill the kettle at the sink.

She closes her book. _The History of the Alderaani Peoples_.

‘Dad, don’t forget to wash your hands.’

‘I won’t.’

 

*

 

She’s not sure when she starts lying to her father but it comes too easily.

It’s cold out, long strides into night, and the flames lick the horizon from the bottom of a barrel as she splices open a coded whisper from the sky. Co-ordinates. Package Retrieval. Rendezvous at oh-one hundred fourteen. A new language for love.

There comes a point in one’s life where a girl tires of stories, pretty tales.

 

*

 

Most days, he cooks her up a mean enough breakfast to keep her quiet.  

She pauses before she speaks.

‘Don’t you ever think about getting off this dustbowl?’

He puts his fork down gently.

‘You really don’t like it here, do you?’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

He looks at her intently. A hard look. A difficult one.

‘Yeah. I have. More than once.’

It’s not the answer she wanted or expected.

He picks his fork back up again.

The scowl doesn’t leave his face.

 

*

 

‘I’d never lie to you. You know that, don’t you, sweetie?’

She only notices how wrong things are when he isn’t there.

(He keeps all his secrets in a jar she just can’t reach. He’ll always be taller than her.)

Once upon a time – back when she was a princess who wore only bruised knees and dungarees, and he was just pure magic and mischief, a powerful sorcerer who could clutch the stars in his palm if he so dared – he takes her to the capital, far to the north (they’d ran out of scrap and he couldn’t leave her alone). It’s her first time past this side of the dune sea, past the sinking wastes and crimson canyons, past the dusty speeder tracks lined with desert flowers.

Leaving – it hadn’t crossed her mind until she crossed those boundaries. She can’t believe her world was this small.

(She clutches hold to his shadow. She can’t let go.)

The city itself is hot and loud. It’s the dirt, the smell of dead end cantinas, crammed back alleys filled with feet and fingers and thoughts that push and push and _push_. And it just _doesn’t stop._

_It’s so noisy._

_They don’t know others can listen._

_What, really?_

He nods.

_Ugh. Tell them to think more quietly, then._

A chuckle. _As you wish._

She feels the air chill as the din fades.

(Years later, he’d teach her how to lie and cheat and crush the fingers of any second-rate crook who tried to swindle her – talk is too cheap, he says – and she briefly wonders who taught him how to fight, how to survive, all his spells and secrets at his fingertips and yet she wonders who taught him how to live by crushing windpipes).

It’s so quiet now that she almost forgets to breathe.

 

*

 

‘Dad – ’

He’s walking towards the garage.

There’s this broken protocol droid there that they found in a dump. Unique C model of some kind, custom-made out of whatever second-hand circuitry its owner could cobble together. Her father took one look and dragged it out of the trash. He intended to disassemble it and put it back together ‘as it should be’.

That was five years ago.

‘Dad – _wait_.’

She’s still sat at the breakfast table. She’s supposed to be washing the dishes.

_(Accept it. You can’t fix it. Sit down.)_

‘Dad, I need to talk to you.’

He gives her a look of disgust, as if she’d just said something unbelievably stupid.

‘Dad, please _–_ this is important _._ ’

‘You know, if I wanted a repeating closed-loop audio system I would have built a droid, not had a daughter.’

‘Just – ‘ she doesn’t hide her frustration. ‘Stop _running_ and sit back down. You can spare five minutes.’

( _You can’t fix this._ )

He frowns. He finds himself often questioning which one of them is the adult.

‘As you wish,’ he says.

_'Thank you.'_

He pulls the chair back in. He crosses his arms. Of course he could fix it. He could fix almost anything.

There’s a moment of silence.

‘Look – Father –’ She never calls him that. ‘You’ve heard of the Rebel Alliance, haven’t you?’

Whatever he had expected, it wasn’t that.

‘I live in the desert, not under a rock. What’s your point?’

‘Do you…’ she paused. As if the words were difficult to pry out. As if she were suddenly speaking a different language. ‘… have any opinion of their activities? Their work?’

‘Since when did you get so interested in politics?’

‘Since I learnt how to tune in to illegal comm frequencies. Which you _taught_ me how to do. And you’re avoiding the question.’

He frowned.

_(Don’t act so surprised. She’s a rebel and a traitor.)_

‘I don’t like politics.’

‘Yeah, I know, I just…’ she stopped again. She was rarely this inarticulate. ‘Listen, I was at Tosche station yesterday picking up some power converters, and – ‘

‘You were supposed to be studying,’ he cut in.

‘I _was._ I broke curfew.’

He blinks.

‘I didn’t just hear you say that.’

She says nothing.

‘ _How could you possibly be so stupid?_ ’

She says nothing.

‘You _know_ exactly how dangerous the desert is at night, you _know_ you could easily be ambushed by raiders or hunters and they could have _killed_ you or _worse_ – ’

(all he can think is of mangled bodies and black bruises and bandages and the sand storms that strip your skin off until there’s only bare bone left – )

‘You _really_ think don’t think I know that?’ she snaps.

He looked at his daughter. His daughter. His.

‘No. I just can’t believe you’d knowingly be so _irresponsible_. That curfew exists to _protect_ you. You’re not invulnerable. You’re still only sixteen.’

‘Yes, I _know_. I took a calculated risk.’

‘For _what_?’ He slams a hand on the table. Damn this. Damn her. ‘What could be _possibly_ worth it?’

She tries to look him hard in the eye.

(a rebel and a traitor)

She says nothing.

‘Leia. What’s going on?’

She places a silver data disk on the table.

(a rebel and a traitor)

‘Leia – ’

‘Don’t act so surprised. You know what this is.’

(She says nothing.)

_You’re a rebel and a traitor._

His daughter.

His.

He slams the disk into the video player and hits ‘play’.

 

 

*

 

 

_“This is Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan –_

 

_“Lord Vader has intercepted our ship –_

 

 _“The plans for the Imperial Death Star are_ _encrypted in this disk –_

 

_“I’m entrusting them to you. Get them to the Rebel Alliance –_

 

_– there’s static, words redacted --_

 

_“[…] help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.”_

 

End of transmission.

 

 

He can feel his world collapse around him. Dreams were never supposed to be this cruel.

 

 

*

 

‘Who is she?’

says Her Royal Highness, the Princess Leia Organa, of Alderaan.

‘Father?’

says the teenage girl in messy braids who still refuses to eat her crusts after sixteen years. elbows on the table. who struggles to meet him in the eye now.

‘Dad?’

Princess Leia.

His Princess.

His Leia.

‘Who is she? Who is Princess Leia?’ she asks.

He’d _known_ it was a girl. He’d felt it. It was half of what the force was yelling at him for those damned nine months – daughter – daughter – _don't forget your daughter_ –

He had a _daughter._

His daughter.

His.

‘You _knew._ You knew and you didn’t tell me. You didn’t think this was important? At all? You lied – ’

‘I didn’t know,’ he says. ‘I didn’t _know_.’ As if it were a revelation – because it was – he had never really known –

‘Bullshit. That’s – I _refuse_ to believe that. You’re lying – ’

‘Leia. Look at me. Please.’

‘How could you not recognise _your own daughter_?’

‘Look – at _me._ I would _never_ lie to you – ’

‘What happened? What did you _do to her?_ ’

‘You know what happened. You’re her.’

He had tortured her for information and butchered millions in the process and had intended to kill her once it had been extracted.

He had broken absolutely everything that she had considered of value.

He had broken – so much.

‘Are you… _Darth Vader_?’

Yes.

‘Father?’

Yes.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes.’ He looks at her. ‘Me.’

It almost feels as if everything is falling apart.

Everything.

The edges of this world, this imagined fairy tale, are burning.

The light floods the room.

It swallows everything like a collapsing star.

( _he’s lost her, he’s lost his daughter, his daughter, his light, his shining light, his princess, his little girl, he’s lost everything that he held dear, he’s broken everything he held dear, he’s lost._ )

Everything.

‘I should kill you,’ she says.

He shrugs. He’s not inclined to disagree.

‘You’re already dead, aren’t you?’ She laughs. It's hollow. ‘Of course you would be dead. There’s no justice _._ Not even here.’

‘Death is never fair, Leia.’

She shakes her head.

There’s a cold silence.

She’s probably trying not to cry.

He wishes – to let her know – he just wants to hold her –

She grasps his hand tightly.

‘Leia - ’

‘You can’t fix this, you know,’ she says bitterly.

‘I know.’

‘I don’t think you do. I’m not one of your _machines_. I don’t think - I can’t forgive ever forgive you.’

‘Leia, I would never expect that of you –’

‘You never taught me how, you know. To forgive.’

Too much like her.

They sit in silence.

She doesn’t want to let go of him.

‘I should go to Alderaan,’ she says.

‘No.’

‘I have to go home.’

‘Absolutely _not_.’

‘Dad,’ she says, firmly. ‘Let me go.’

He looks at the young woman sat in front of him.

Princess Leia. Rebel. Traitor. General. She’s proud and strong and full of fire.

She had never needed him.

‘Go,’ he says, finally.

He lets go of her hand.

 

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it took me over two weeks and I redrafted this THREE TIMES oh my god you have no idea how hard this chapter is.
> 
> but I did it.
> 
> I broke my heart so many fucking times writing this you have no idea how much I love these characters. Good god. Leia. I love you my girl. You deserve so much better.
> 
> The next chapter is the epilogue, and I'm finally done with this. I never thought I'd complete it.
> 
> (p.s. if you comment on this chapter I will <3 you forever. The characterisation of Anakin is so damn hard to pin down at times. I don't think I even do it that well.)


	6. epilogue: requiem

(when she wakes the sky is covered with fire. the death star has collapsed. arms are all around her instead of ghosts and she finds herself gripping until her knuckles are white.)

* * *

 

 

'Sweetheart? We lost you for a moment there. Hey,' Lips to her ear. Hands that can’t let go. 'I’m not going anywhere. You okay?'

'Han. He's dead.'

His thoughts are like an alarm bell. 'Luke's _dead_?'

'No - not Luke. Vader.' all the foreign thoughts of storms and static, lightning in the desert, bruises in the stars, they fade with every breath she takes as a reminder that she survived. 'We've won.'

She's free. And she can't stop smiling.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**i.**

 

His name is Skywalker. Anakin is a quickly-spoken childhood name he had thought discarded, but its enunciation clings to his footsteps. Vader is a suit, little more than a clinical murder machine (of his own making), and after he discards the black, he still finds that his hands are still dirty.

The first thing he does after he wakes in the afterlife is attempt to find a sink.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**ii.**

 

'Some of the blood won't wash out.'

 

'I suppose that's to be expected, isn't it?'

 

'I think I’ll have to live with it.'

 

* * *

 

 

**iii.**

 

His mother lingers by the doorway. She's been waiting for him the longest.

'Ani.'

She smiles like the stars themselves, and pulls him into an embrace. It's firm, and warm, and so much more than a fragile reminder of what he failed to protect.

She’ll always love him. He doesn’t understand why or how – but she does.

 

* * *

 

  
  
**iv.**

 

‘It’s – well, it’s an adjustment.’

 

‘Everything sticks here. There’s no before or after.’

 

‘I don't really know what to do with myself any more. I can't run away here.’

 

 

* * *

 

 

**v.**

 

She lives in a small cottage by the sea with her family, the sort of house that Padmé thought only existed in pictures.

He walks with her along the sea front every morning. She collects sea shells, and watches him toss pebbles into the sea. Further and further.

They talk. Small words. The spaces between them say enough.

(Luke is doing well, apparently. Lots of new apprentices this year. Busy. And Leia – he doesn’t speak of Leia.)

'I still can't believe you're on speaking terms with him.'

She doesn’t hide the frown. Really, she tires of this argument. It makes perfect sense for her. This is the only way she can stay in touch with her children.

Sometimes, you forgive out of necessity.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**vi.**

 

‘Four things. You see you did it. You remember to breathe. You apologise – to yourself, as well as them, it’s too easy to forget yourself. And then you move on.’

 

‘It’s still on your hands, but you move on.’

 

‘Of course it’s not easy.’

 

* * *

 

 

**vii.**

 

Ahsoka crashes through the window and practically strangles him with a hug the next time she sees him.

'I'm sorry.' she says. 'I'm so damn sorry for killing you.'

It’s so sudden and unexpected and he can’t stop laughing because it’s so _absurd_.

‘Snips. It’s water under the bridge.’

She tells him off for not taking him seriously. She tells him that she didn’t have to – but she _wanted_ to say sorry. That it was important, she had decided. This was all her decision.

Then she punches him in the stomach.

She didn't have to forgive him, but she did it anyway.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**viii.**

 

‘You never talk about her.’

 

‘Forgiveness? No. I don’t think that’s the point.’

 

‘It’s not a matter of just ‘patching things up’ with Leia. There was nothing to begin with.’

 

‘Of _course_ I want to. I would tell her that she was right. About everything.’

 

* * *

 

 

**ix.**

 

Anakin is relatively certain he will never see his daughter. He thinks he's at peace with that.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That's it. 
> 
> I have a second shorter epilogue written where Leia does meet her father. But that involves working TFA into this story - really, I think the only circumstances where Leia and Anakin will ever get anywhere close to reconciliation will occur after [spoilers spoilers spoilers]. Personally, I'm happy pretending absolutely _none_ of that happens and that Leia is happy forever.
> 
> I did waver on whether to have Leia and Anakin eventually reconcile. I decided against it partially because it's actually not the most important thing here - whether or not they make-up, the goal here is for Anakin to recognise he's done wrong, and move on.


End file.
